


Delighted and Distracted

by dreamlittleyo



Series: Surrender 'Verse [3]
Category: Hamilton - Miranda
Genre: Canon Era, Consent Issues, Dry Fucking, Irresponsible Decisions, Love Confessions, M/M, Oral Sex, Pain Kink, Porn with Feelings, Possessive Behavior, Rank Disparity, Rough Sex, Wall Sex, dom/sub themes, everyone has a good time
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-09
Updated: 2017-09-09
Packaged: 2018-12-25 17:01:11
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,799
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12040299
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dreamlittleyo/pseuds/dreamlittleyo
Summary: In which Washington is jealous and possessive, but Hamilton would rather ride his general's cock than attend a gala anyway.





	Delighted and Distracted

Of necessity their indiscretions take place under cover of darkness. Alone, isolated, protected by the exhaustion of the camp and the solitude of night. There are exceptions, of course. Days when Washington's possessiveness cannot wait until nightfall. Stolen moments when Hamilton is needy and demanding and contrives to get him alone.

Such recklessness is dangerous. They should both know better, Washington most of all. They cannot afford to be careless when the cost of discovery is _everything_.

Yet more than once Washington has found himself here, beyond the reach of reason. He can't even blame the boy. It's not Hamilton's fault the women of this town are drawn to his youthful spirit and pretty face. There is not the faintest scent of manipulation or teasing at Washington's expense. Hamilton's flirtations this evening have not been deliberate; they were obviously _not_ intended to goad Washington into poor behavior.

His boy is incapable of such subtlety.

No, Hamilton's attentions to the young ladies at this small gala have been harmless, scattered evenly across the entire company. He has not paid excessive attention to any one of them. His behavior has been faultless, his manners uncharacteristically impeccable. Hamilton is clearly more interested in making a good impression on the party at large than in pursuing any particular lady.

Washington doesn't care. Rational knowledge cannot quiet his territorial instincts as he drags Hamilton against him.

"You're being _ridiculous_ ," Hamilton protests, though he sounds breathless, and he makes no move to escape. Washington is holding on too hard—he is certain to leave bruises—but Hamilton won't mind.

Hamilton will thank him for every bruise. He will beg for more, as he always does.

"You don't belong to them," Washington growls, barely restraining himself from sinking his teeth into the delicate skin above the boy's quickening pulse. "They can't hope to satisfy you."

Hamilton clings to him and breathes a soft, wild sound at Washington's words. But when Washington tries to claim his mouth, the boy twists his face away. Maddening. Unacceptable. Washington breathes a lower, angrier growl.

"Sir, the _door_." Hamilton sounds very much like he doesn't want to care about the door.

Washington twists his fingers in soft hair and drags Hamilton into a kiss, overriding any trace of protest. He can taste brandy on the boy's tongue, and a sweetness that is all Alexander. It warms him through, the way Hamilton melts beneath the onslaught, greedily submissive and offering no further resistance.

They are both of them breathing hard when Washington ends the kiss. Hamilton's eyes are slow to open, his lips reddened, his cheeks flushed. Washington can feel the hot nudge of arousal through their uniforms. He burns to possess Alexander tonight.

"Don't worry about the door," he murmurs, tracing a thumb over Hamilton's kiss-swollen lower lip. "The latch is secure." He locked it the second he was over the threshold, very much aware of his own intentions—his need to touch and to claim him.

Bright strains of music twine from below. The night has not grown late enough for the party to disperse. He hopes it's at least late enough that his own absence will go unnoticed.

They will have to be quiet— _always_ there is a need for quiet—but here especially. The room around them is small, a private study, and the walls are far too thin. Even the music leaking up from the first floor is barely muffled. There is little space for discretion.

Washington shoves Hamilton deeper into the study, propelling him backwards, past bookshelves and chairs and a curtained window. Hamilton breathes a startled yelp when his back collides with the wall.

Washington arches an eyebrow at him. "You must keep your voice down, my boy."

"I will," Hamilton breathes. "I swear it."

A moment's silence—more to make Hamilton squirm than because Washington disbelieves him—and then he kisses Alexander again.

He should not be so helpless. He is no boy to be carried away with arousal. He's an old man, and he had Alexander only last night—a mere twenty hours ago. He should not be lost with need for him now. But he is. There is something unquenchable in his desire for Alexander Hamilton.

Washington used to think that if only he could possess the boy briefly, this obsession would pass. Instead, after six months of this frantic and dangerous affair, his ardor has only grown.

He has not come equipped to use Hamilton gently tonight. He did not _plan_ to behave poorly, did not expect to be overrun with jealousy and need. Neither could he obtain oil from the kitchens without throwing aside all discretion.

But then, Hamilton has never asked him to be gentle.

Washington marvels at the boy's eagerness for pain, but he's long since stopped questioning it. Hamilton is too genuine in his enjoyment of the roughest handling. Greedy for any opportunity to be choked on the length of Washington's cock. Smugly satisfied with the bruises his general leaves on his surprisingly delicate skin. Washington has begun to suspect he could unleash the whole of his strength—every violent impulse he has ever harbored—and Hamilton would still crave more.

It's a terrifying thought, but it does not sober him as it should.

There is something exquisitely intimate in the quick, shallow way Hamilton is breathing as Washington ends the kiss. His face is beautiful—slack with pleasure, eyes closed, lips parted. The boy is every sin Washington has ever wanted to commit, and every redemption he has ever prayed for.

Perhaps he stares too long, because after a moment Hamilton's eyes blink open. He looks dazed, innocent, and the expression makes Washington yearn to debauch him completely.

At least he can be confident that on this, if nothing else, his contentious chief of staff is sure to agree.

"Sir?" Hamilton asks, and there is so much plea in that one word.

"Yes," Washington says simply. It's a quick matter to undress Hamilton from the waist down—a process rendered each time more efficient—and helped along by Hamilton's own eagerness to be claimed. Hamilton moves fast when he is impatient, and he is clearly impatient now. A handful of heartbeats is all the time required.

The task is barely complete before Hamilton is reaching for _him_ , loosening Washington's breeches with nimble fingers, drawing his cock into the cool air. Washington bites off a moan at the teasing touch. He is already achingly hard.

He is not alone. Hamilton's cock curves up toward his belly, rising beneath the loose fall of his shirt.

Washington considers undressing him further. He wants to see every inch of skin laid bare, every flush of heat, every fading bruise. He wants to touch what is his.

But they're already courting disaster. It will cost precious seconds for Hamilton to dress if their hiding place is discovered. If Washington drags him from his shirt, his waistcoat, his uniform jacket… No. The risk is already too great. He cannot justify more.

"How do you want me?" A wicked smile curls at Hamilton's mouth and invitation flashes in his eyes.

"Exactly like this," Washington says. He nudges Hamilton's teasing hand away, and it's a testament to how ready Hamilton is to be fucked, that he does not protest.

Washington doesn't hesitate. He grips Hamilton by the thighs and hoists him off the ground, spreading his legs and bracing him against the wall. It's far too easy to do—his boy weighs too little—but tonight is no time for agonizing over privations beyond his control. Washington slips the bulk of his body between warm thighs, and Hamilton breathes a soft _oh_ of approval.

Hamilton's arms twine around his shoulders, holding on as he hooks his ankles at the small of Washington's back. He is even easier to support this way, perfectly balanced in Washington's arms.

He does not ask if Hamilton is ready. Does not ask if this is okay. Does not ask anything at all, because he already knows the answers. Hamilton has never used any of their signals to call a ceasefire; he's never even come close. Washington knows his boy's limits.

In this moment—as in all the rest—Hamilton wants only to be taken, and Washington is selfish enough to oblige.

It's a matter of balance to keep Hamilton aloft as Washington drops one hand between their bodies. He grips his own cock and guides himself to the boy's entrance. An overheated pause stretches between them, and then the head of his cock presses inside, earning a hitch of breath and a harder grip of Hamilton's arms about his shoulders.

Alexander is tighter than Washington expects, considering how vigorously they fucked last night. His body gives way only grudgingly as gravity draws him farther down the length of Washington's cock. There is pain alongside the pleasure in Hamilton's stuttered gasps; and he gives a low, helpless whimper as Washington forces the last couple inches inside him faster than the rest. Leaving Hamilton's struggling muscles no choice but to accommodate the intrusion—leaving no more space at all between them.

Washington buries a groan against Hamilton's throat. The sensations are overwhelming, the vice grip squeezing his cock, the warmth of Hamilton's body intimate against him.

He braces Hamilton with both hands, lifts him several inches higher—

And drags him down again with brutal strength.

Hamilton's head thumps against the wall, and the cry he breathes is too loud. Not enough to carry through the walls, but still dangerous. Too much. Even through his own pleasure Washington knows they must be more careful than this.

He stills with his cock seated deep and growls, " _Look at me_ , Alexander."

It takes a moment for lust-clouded eyes to blink open, and another for Hamilton to properly look at him.

"Sir?" he asks when Washington continues to hold perfectly still.

And oh, the arousal in those eyes makes Washington want to throw aside all other concerns. Damn the consequences—what do repercussions matter when Hamilton is looking at him like this—when the air between them is ablaze with need, and all Washington wants is to pound into this willing body so hard he has to carry his boy home.

Instead he draws a steadying breath and says, "You gave me your word you would keep quiet."

Hamilton's expression clears—barely—and he breathes a faint, " _Oh_."

"Yes." Washington tries to sound somber. The task is remarkably difficult when he's buried to the hilt in perfect bliss, the muscles of Hamilton's body fluttering helplessly around him. "Were you mistaken? Do I need to gag you?" Their simplest expedient—the weight of Washington's broad palm silencing him—isn't tenable in their current state. He needs both his hands to use Hamilton thoroughly at this angle. He is loathe to choose a different position, hungry to have his boy exactly like this.

"No," Hamilton says, and there's an audible moan in his voice. "No, you don't have to— I don't need— I'll be good, sir. For you. _I can do it_. I can be good."

Washington kisses him, then. Deep, greedy, filthy. Giddy at the sense of power when Hamilton instantly gives himself over to the possessive thrust of Washington's tongue.

He takes his time despite his desperation to _move_. Patience. He wants to properly enjoy every moment of this.

They are both panting when he releases Hamilton's mouth.

Washington meets Alexander's dazed stare. "You are _always_ good for me."

" _Sir_." Hamilton ducks forward and kisses him again. Pleading, eloquent, grateful. Not gentle—they are neither of them in a gentle mood—but heavy with affection. Washington's heart feels full enough to burst. For a moment he can't breathe through the tight twist of feeling.

Hamilton's mouth is still demanding when Washington lifts him and ruts deep once more. He swallows the sounds of pleasure, drinking in the feel of his boy. He does not believe in Heaven; no afterlife could be better than this.

The kiss falters and breaks as Washington uses his strength to maneuver Hamilton up and down the length of his cock. Hamilton does his best to help, canting his hips, matching every thrust. Each breath is obscene, as Hamilton gasps and moans, as he grunts at being dragged down too roughly, as he buries a louder cry in the collar of Washington's uniform.

Washington cannot last like this. His own completion draws closer, speeding his pace, tightening low in his gut. He's panting harder now, with exertion and with satisfaction so near.

" _Sir_." Hamilton gasps as he is jolted against the wall, and it's obvious he is just as close. "Oh God, sir, can I—"

" _No_ ," Washington growls as his own release overtakes him. The word comes out wild and ferocious. There's gravel in his voice, and a boom of authority, an unyielding wall of command.

Hamilton sobs, a choked off cry that he scarcely manages to muffle in Washington's cravat. Washington barely notices through his own wild surge of pleasure. Sensation courses through him, a torrent carrying away all vestiges of control. He is an absence of thought—an abundance of instinct—barely cognizant of the need for quiet. There is warm skin beneath his mouth, and Washington parts his lips. Bites down hard to stifle his own ecstatic shout.

It is both an eternity and no time at all before his jumbled thoughts fall back into line. Hamilton is trembling in his hands, still wedged against the wall with Washington's softening cock inside of him, breathing fast and shallow as though barely holding on.

Hamilton's cock is still hard. Unspent. He has obeyed his general's cruel command.

When Washington draws back, he finds a desperate plea in Hamilton's eyes. But the boy doesn't voice the plea aloud. Such restraint is a feat, and one that deserves a reward.

"Are you all right?" Washington asks, even though he already knows the answer.

Hamilton shivers and nods and does not say a word.

"Good," Washington says, and lifts Hamilton off his cock with an efficiency that is not at all gentle.

Hamilton curls against him—breathes a quiet but emphatic, " _Fuck_ "—and clings tighter to Washington's shoulders. Another moment and he unwinds his legs from around his general's waist and allows himself to be lowered to his feet, though he seems barely able to stand under his own power. He looks dazed, gorgeous, and thoroughly fucked.

Hamilton's throat is already beginning to bruise from the careless press of teeth. His lips are swollen, and Washington can't tell if it's from the force of their kisses or if Hamilton has bitten them red in his efforts to keep his voice down.

Either way, it's a sight Washington will cherish to the end of time. He can't resist ducking his head for a taste. The hint of iron should not delight him the way it does.

He eases back, holding Hamilton at bay when the boy tries to follow. Hamilton subsides only reluctantly, and holds Washington with a look full of desperate questions.

"Do not move," Washington says.

Then he lowers himself to his knees.

Dark eyes widen as they follow him down, and Hamilton breathes a strangled sound of surprise. Washington chuckles. It's not as though this is the first time he's gone to his knees for his boy—and it certainly will not be the last—but there's something charming in the shock written across Alexander's face. It's obvious he did not expect such a reward tonight.

The show of surprise only makes Washington more desperate to satisfy him.

Hamilton's cock is stiff and flushed, but Washington does not go immediately to work. He pauses deliberately. Raises his eyes. Locks Hamilton with a stern look.

"Be silent," he admonishes. "Or I will stop."

Hamilton's jaw drops and a fresh blush stains his cheeks. His cock gives an eager twitch, but Washington holds steady a moment longer. Meeting those wide eyes, making sure his boy knows _exactly_ how serious the threat is.

Then, as smooth and graceful as he can, Washington leans forward and draws Hamilton's cock into his mouth.

To his credit, Hamilton confines himself to low whimpers and stifled groans as Washington bobs forward and takes him farther in. The boy is learning control despite himself. An unanticipated benefit of their dalliances, but also a necessary one. Washington hums a pleased sound, and the vibrations earn him a higher gasp. Still nothing loud enough to give them away.

Good.

Hamilton's obedience eases the last vestiges of worry and allows Washington to enjoy this properly. Taking in more of the stiff length, circling the base in a tight grip. He's not as skilled as Hamilton. He hasn't mastered the trick of effortlessly opening his throat and swallowing, regardless of how easy his boy makes it seem. Washington finds it a skill as yet beyond his reach and—unlike Alexander—he is not at all fond of choking.

But he doesn't need to open his throat in order to please. He has other talents. He knows what Hamilton likes, how he aches to be touched. And when he simultaneously hollows his cheeks with suction and gives a firm stroke of his hand, Hamilton rewards him with an incoherent noise of delight.

It's not silence—of course Hamilton can't be truly silent under such conditions—but it's quiet enough. Washington bobs lower, retreats when the head of Hamilton's cock nudges too insistently at the back of his throat. With every hollowing of his cheeks, he strokes his fist along smooth flesh.

In the earliest days of their entanglement, Washington didn't do this often; but it was not for lack of wanting. He enjoys the weight and girth of Hamilton's cock on his tongue, the undeniable power of being on his knees and still entirely in control. He enjoys taking Hamilton apart in any way he can—not _just_ by fucking him senseless—and it feels a victory all its own that the boy has learned enough patience for Washington to indulge them both.

There is a flutter of movement in Washington's peripheral vision, and then Hamilton's restless hands are on him. Tentative, a glancing touch of slender fingers. Asking permission without words.

Washington eases back and Hamilton's cock slips wetly from his mouth. "Go ahead, my boy."

Hamilton breathes a grateful sound and touches more surely. Washington resumes his attentions. Above him Alexander inhales shakily. Curls one hand around the back of Washington's head. Clenches the other in the shoulder of his uniform, creasing the fabric beside the gold epaulet. Hamilton's entire body is taut as a bowstring, perfect beneath his general's hands and mouth.

Washington has never bedded any lover, man or woman, as responsive as his Alexander. There's a helpless honesty not just in the boy's manner, but in every sense and sound and emotion. Hamilton is a man incapable of giving only part of himself; everything he does, he does entirely and sincerely.

And Washington treasures him for it.

He knows from a dozen small tells when Hamilton is close. But he doesn't need those tells when a moment later the hand at the back of his head abruptly lets go. The grip on his shoulder tightens uncomfortably, but Washington only speeds his strokes. When he opens his eyes and glances up into Hamilton's face, their gazes lock with all the heat of a brushfire.

Hamilton whimpers, and Washington wonders what he must look like in this moment. A supplicant, perhaps. On his knees, mouth stretched around hard flesh, lips slick as he slides forward and then eases back.

Hamilton bites his own fist to muffle an increasingly frantic litany of sounds. Even stifled almost to nothing those noises are a delight.

A moment later and Hamilton's eyes flutter closed, his head falling back with a thump. His moan is high and loose despite the fist he bites in an effort to keep quiet. If Washington were a younger man, that sound alone would be enough to rouse his own sated cock.

Fortunately for both of them, he is _not_ a younger man; he has already absented himself too long from the party downstairs. He will need to tend to Hamilton when they're finished—hold him, praise him, gentle him—and no matter how much Washington might wish it, they do not have time for more.

He swallows as Hamilton spends across his tongue, and he is careful to catch every drop. It won't do to leave evidence of their transgressions, or to depart this room with soiled clothing. He doesn't relish the bitter-salt taste the way Hamilton seems to—for its own sake—but he does not mind. There is intimacy in this as well, and ample to enjoy when it so thoroughly demolishes Alexander.

"Oh fuck, _sir_ ," Hamilton groans in a hush. The urgency is gone from his voice. He sounds slurred and satisfied.

Washington sits back on his heels, wiping the back of his hand across his mouth. He cannot take his eyes off his boy.

He shouldn't be surprised when Hamilton collapses to the floor a moment later, an awkward jumble of limbs landing practically in his lap. Kneeling as he is, Washington is poorly positioned to hold Hamilton in his arms—so he pushes the boy away, only long enough to maneuver them both. He takes a moment to right his own attire as he settles with his back against the wall, sitting properly so that he can tug Hamilton into place astride him.

Hamilton _preens_ as he settles, tucking himself close, curling as small as he can against Washington's chest. The sigh that follows is pure contentment, and Hamilton's lips flutter teasingly at his throat. Not quite a kiss, but Washington imagines he can feel a smile brush his skin. He loops his arms loosely about Hamilton's waist. There's no need to tug him closer; he's already moulded himself along Washington's front like a second skin.

Hamilton is also still naked from the waist down—Alexander never has been self-conscious. And in all honesty, Washington is glad for it. He enjoys that he's allowed not only to touch, but to look his fill. His boy is beautiful and deserves to be appreciated, as thoroughly and as often as possible. That Hamilton is vain does not trouble Washington. He's glimpsed the reservoir of fear and self doubt lingering beneath Hamilton's turbulent exterior, and he does not begrudge this one smug confidence.

"You did well, my boy." Washington ducks his head to nuzzle at Hamilton's neck. His mouth presses lightly to the newest bruise.

Hamilton inhales sharply, but he sounds almost sleepy when he says, "Thank you, sir." His hands are restless, ghosting touches over Washington's arms, shoulders, jaw. His breath is warm and steady.

Washington does not want to leave this room. He doesn't want to let Hamilton out of his sight. But they're far from the relative privacy of Washington's bedchamber, and he has no choice.

"Are you hurt?" He asks softly, sliding one hand down the bare curve of Hamilton's ass. Dipping his fingers into the cleft to find the intimate place where Hamilton is slick with his release.

Hamilton bites back a moan. "Not badly." But he is moving gingerly even now, and he hisses when Washington's fingertips press inside him.

"You can't return to the party like this." Washington slips two fingers deeper to feel Hamilton squirm. "I've used you too cruelly. You won't be able to dance the way you began the night. Your admirers will grow suspicious."

"Maybe," Hamilton concedes with a tired hum. "Though they're more likely to be suspicious of the mark from your teeth than my lack of agility."

Washington closes his eyes and swallows. "I'm sorry." He did not begin this night intending to be indiscreet, but the damage is done. Hamilton won't be able to rejoin the fine company downstairs—he will have to sneak out of this house like a burglar.

But Hamilton straightens at his words and locks Washington with a determined glare. "Don't apologize. You know I cherish every bruise."

Washington does not shrink beneath the rebuke. "There is a time and a place for such indulgence."

Hamilton's glare softens, and the unguarded affection in his eyes makes Washington lightheaded. "I am always yours. To indulge _and_ to indulge in."

"And if my indulgence gets us both hanged as sodomites?" He hasn't removed his fingers from Hamilton's ass. His own lack of self-restraint has not escaped him.

"It will not," Hamilton insists, all stubbornness and warmth. "I like it when you can't control yourself."

"You are as shameless as you are reckless," Washington groans, letting his head fall back with a quiet thud. He withdraws his fingers from Hamilton's body, and Hamilton tucks himself tight along Washington's chest once more.

"You adore me for it. And in any case, you are being a hypocrite." The words are teasing. Light. Spoken with a languor and feeling that tell Washington he is not truly being scolded.

"I am no hypocrite," he says with exaggerated affront.

"You are," Hamilton says, still curled contentedly in his lap. "You call me reckless, but I've shown only good sense and moderation tonight. I've mingled and danced and made every effort to win support for our cause. You're the one who has used me so thoroughly I can no longer show my face at this fête. _You're_ the one who can't keep his teeth to himself."

"You've already forbidden my apology," Washington points out, playing along.

"Because I don't want it. If you apologize sincerely, you may try to behave better in the future. I refuse to take such a risk."

Washington laughs despite himself. He allows himself to enjoy this moment, all too aware that it won't last. It never lasts. Their obligations are close at hand, and will not be held at bay for long.

There is an overabundance of feeling in Washington's chest. A violent whirlwind of possessiveness, affection, pride, hope. He knew from the start that this thing between them would be complicated. It's only within the past few weeks that he's come to realize: he is truly in over his head.

"You are right about one thing," he hears himself say, the words spilling out of him without thought or caution. "I do adore you."

He's never said it out loud before, and suddenly he is terrified. Hamilton stills completely, restless hands falling to Washington's chest, breath halting. There is only Hamilton's heartbeat, and Washington's, and the winding strains of music rising through the floor.

"Do you mean that? Truly?" Hamilton's voice is so small, impossible to reconcile with his usually forceful personality.

Washington hesitates. It's too late to deny the words—he's already spoken them—and he _does_ mean them. It petrifies him, just how much he means them.

But he's never lied to Alexander. He can't bring himself to start now.

"Yes," he says, voice heavy with bravado.

Hamilton shivers against him, clutching his fingers in the fabric of Washington's waistcoat.

"Promise me," Hamilton breathes, nuzzling against his throat. "Promise it's true. Say it again."

Relief pulses beneath Washington's skin, along with a protectiveness so fierce it makes his heart hurt. Hamilton has proven time and again that he does not wish to be guarded, but Washington wants nothing more than to spend the rest of their lives keeping him from harm.

"I promise." He wraps his arms more tightly around Alexander's thin frame. "I adore you."

"And will you keep me?"

This too is a promise being asked of him. Impossible. There is so much fighting still ahead of them, and a nation to build, and Hamilton's whole life a blank wall of potential while Washington is a married man.

But impossible or not, Washington is not lying when he answers, " _Always_ , my boy. My Alexander. I have no intention of letting you go."

Hamilton exhales a long, low sigh. A heartbeat passes between them, and then Hamilton is framing Washington's face with both hands. Kissing him, yearning and slow. For once Washington does not take control. He allows Hamilton this leisurely exploration.

When Hamilton retreats, Washington opens his eyes and finds quiet awe written across the boy's expressive face. Hamilton's mouth hangs ajar. His eyes are alive with fire.

Then Hamilton leans forward again, this time to press his forehead to Washington's. Holding there as though steadying himself.

"I love you, sir," Hamilton blurts in a rush. "And I don't intend to let you go either."

Washington's heart swells with feeling—so much it seems impossible for his body to contain it all—and his head spins. Tears prick at the corners of his eyes. He ignores the wetness, the tightening of his throat, the sudden racket of his own blood rushing in his ears. He meets Hamilton in another kiss, driven by renewed and mutual desperation.

Washington has never been a good man. He knows he is flawed and unkind, and he's long since given up any aspiration to be better than he is. He does not deserve this. He does not deserve Alexander Hamilton. But by God, Washington will take and keep and treasure him anyway.

It is ultimately Hamilton who ends the kiss, and who makes the first move to rise. He looks shaken, as though he is shocked at the shared truth they've confessed tonight.

But he stands steadily enough, and begins collecting his scattered clothing.

By the time Washington is on his feet, Hamilton is fully dressed. Hamilton's queue has been retied into its usual tight perfection, and he's smoothed his clothing as well as he can. Despite his efforts, there's no hiding the fact that he has been recently and thoroughly fucked. His mouth is red and swollen, his throat newly bruised, and his cheeks are bright with color. He is also moving carefully, though he has long practice hiding such discomfort.

Anyone looking at the boy for more than a fleeting glance will have no doubt where Hamilton has been, or what he's been doing. They will know he has been taken—a dangerous enough prospect by itself—and the only uncertainty will be, by whom.

They cannot afford such questions.

"It's all right," Hamilton says, obviously tracking the stampede of Washington's thoughts. "I know a discreet exit. I'll make sure no one sees me."

"Good," Washington says.

" _You_ , on the other hand…"

Washington's eyes narrow. "What _about_ me?"

"Well… All due respect, sir, but you're in almost as much of a state as I am. And _you_ can't afford to sneak out like a thief."

Washington sighs heavily. "You're right." He did not lay any strategy to extricate himself from the situation he's created. He wasn't thinking ahead—wasn't thinking at all—far too distracted by the need to claim his boy.

Hamilton's eyes run him up and down, a look more considering than appreciative. After a moment Hamilton nods, apparently having reached some decision.

"I have an idea," he announces brightly. "Wait here." And then he is gone, so quickly Washington couldn't protest even if he wanted to.

Hamilton is away a few minutes at most, but his absence seems an absolute eternity. By the time he returns, Washington is pacing, anxious impatience bleeding through the usually stoic exterior he wears like a shield. 

Instead of entering the study straightaway, Hamilton taps lightly on the door and murmurs, "Sir?" through the wood.

Washington opens the door, and immediately understands why Hamilton didn't turn the handle himself. Hamilton crosses the threshold into the room, carrying a glass of red wine in one hand, a silvery pitcher in the other. There's a thick towel draped over his arm.

Washington closes the door with a soft click. "What the devil is all this?"

"The makings of a brilliant escape." Hamilton sets the pitcher and towel down on an impractical little table. "Come here."

Only in private is his boy so bossy, and only in the calmest of moments. Never in the heat of intimacy, when all Hamilton craves is to submit.

Washington approaches now, raising one eyebrow in wordless question.

"You'll want to remove your coat," Hamilton says, and Washington does that too. Shrugging heavy fabric from his shoulders and draping it over the back of the nearest chair. Hamilton smiles up at him, impish and bright and close enough to touch. "Forgive me, sir."

Washington's other eyebrow rises to join the first. "For what, my boy?"

"This." And Hamilton upends the wine, spilling deliberately down the front of Washington's waistcoat.

Washington startles back, but the damage is already done. The Burgundy liquid spreads in a wide, dark stain along his waistcoat and breeches.

" _Hamilton_ ," he hisses, "What in God's name—"

"Perfect," Hamilton interrupts smugly. He sets the empty wine glass down and picks up the towel, dipping it into the pitcher—water—and saturating it. "Just one more moment."

Washington stares as Hamilton dabs ineffectually at the wine. "There's no point, Alexander. The fabric is already ruined."

"Yes," Hamilton agrees gamely, but he re-wets the towel and continues his efforts. "The stain won't come out. But with luck, it will be obvious you tried in vain to make it come clean."

"To _what purpose_?" Washington demands. His patience is fraying.

"Now you have a valid reason for absenting yourself so long from the party. A fellow guest's clumsiness sent you in search of water—but you couldn't remedy the damage. And no, you can't possibly confess who, they're already desperately embarrassed."

Washington blinks. Glances down at his soiled garments and sees the way the water has blurred and spread the wine, suffusing the deep color through the fabric.

It _is_ a clever ruse.

"Did anyone see you?" He asks. "Did you speak to the servants?"

"Of course not," Hamilton scoffs. "I was both quick and subtle."

"Hmm." Washington takes the towel from Hamilton's hand and sets it aside. "That is enough, I think."

"There's an additional benefit to all this." Hamilton's smile stretches wider. He is obviously pleased with himself. "You now smell _far_ too strongly of wine for anyone to notice that you also smell of _me_."

"You are too clever for your own good," Washington mutters.

"Then you approve of my plan?"

"It hardly matters if I approve. You've already enacted it. We are committed now."

"It will work," Hamilton says. "You can find someone of status to make your apologies to. No one will begrudge you leaving. It's late enough, they won't expect you to return."

Washington feels his expression soften despite his efforts to remain stern. "And what shall I do with the rest of my night, if I no longer have a gala to attend?"

Hamilton's grin is all teeth. "I'm sure you'll think of something, sir."


End file.
